Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (7 page)

Faye felt sorry for Clara Knight. Barbara admitted her case was sad but didn’t see anything criminal in Gail Sherman’s actions. I was somewhere in between.

The property that was marked for sale but apparently wasn’t kept coming to mind. The sign might well have been left up due to an oversight, but the fact that the other realtor in Gail’s office was left in the dark was more puzzling to me. Working in the same office, the same room, the two women should have heard each other’s calls and discussed each other’s prospects. It was hard to imagine Gail not mentioning she had a buyer.

I had a theory. If Gail thought she’d soon get her hands on her aunt’s place, she might have bought the property next to it for herself. The owner of half of Sweet Springs might do something with it, like build a resort. The area was quiet, and there was plenty of space for cabins or even condos, along with lots of nearby state land for hunting and the springs for fishing. The practicalities of developing a property that far from Allport were hard for me to imagine, but I’d be the first to admit I knew nothing about real estate.

Faye had pointed out that Clara’s place didn’t seem like the property of someone with dementia. “Everything is put away,” she’d told me in a phone call the night before. “The house looks well-kept.”

I’d formed the same impression during our stop, but we’d only seen the outside. The house might be a horror, with butter in the oven and dishtowels in the refrigerator. Clara might be like those people you see on TV who put balls of cat hair in dresser drawers and stack stinky, unwashed milk jugs in the hallway.

Saturday is the day I miss my husband the most. Don seems to linger in the corners of our house and yard. In autumn I can almost see him raking leaves, composting the garden, or cleaning out the garage so two vehicles will fit inside during winter. I can almost feel the cold he used to bring back inside, clinging to his flannel. Because of that, I find it’s better if I leave home entirely and find something to keep my mind occupied. Barbara sneers at the number of organizations I join and activities I support, but she’s always been alone. I had to find things to do after Don died and the kids left home, or I’d have gone crazy. And as I said, the loneliness is worst on Saturdays, when everyone else is doing things with their families.

Added to my need for distraction is my dog Styx, who loves new places to explore. He’s a Newfoundland, so some of his happiest moments come when he finds water he’s never taken a dip in before. Therefore, in a blend of curiosity, boredom, loneliness, and doggy indulgence, I drove out to Sweet Springs early Saturday morning—well, early for me. Before we left I spread a couple of old blankets over the back seat of my car so when Styx was done swimming, he could ride back there.

The drive was even more scenic than last time, since the colors were really starting to pop. It had rained overnight, so the road was wet, but the temperature had already risen to the fifties with bright sunshine. There was no wind. The lake was peaceful and still when I pulled into Clara’s driveway. The house looked as empty as before. When I opened the car door, Styx just about knocked me down as he rocketed out of the car, ran directly to the lake, and plunged into the water without even putting a toe in first to check the temperature.

While he enjoyed his cold bath, I turned to Clara’s house. My thoughts about butter in the oven made me wonder if the inside of the house would reveal the owner’s incompetence. Climbing the steps to the front door, I peered in. Everything looked the same as it had the first time I was there. I checked the back door and all the windows I could reach. Locked. Ignoring the little voice in my head that said I shouldn’t, I began looking for where she’d have stashed the spare key. Everyone has one, and it’s just a matter of thinking as they think. Would Clara put a key where it was most convenient for her or where it was least likely to be found? I figured somewhere in the middle—not too hard to get to, but not in plain sight either.

I didn’t find it on the porch. My spare key hangs in my garage, but Clara didn’t have one of those. That meant it was probably in one of the sheds. Getting a flashlight out of my car, I went through them, searching three of the four before I saw it. Along the outside of the doorframe was a nail, and on the nail was a key. Not easy to find in the dark space, but low enough for Clara—and for me—to reach without stretching.

The key fit the front door, and, with a slightly guilty glance around to be sure I wasn’t being observed, I entered Clara’s house. I was
not
snooping, though I could almost hear Barbara Ann sniffing in disapproval. Clara had asked for our help, and I was trying to get an understanding of exactly what her situation was. In the end, what I was doing would help everyone.

The place smelled musty, as old homes do after being closed up for any time at all. The entryway had pegs on the wall for outerwear, and I noted an assortment of old coats on one end, probably for working outside, and better ones on the other, no doubt for going into town.

Beyond that, the living room opened to the whole width of the house. Only one corner seemed occupied: a comfortable chair, a table stacked with books and magazines, a television set into a cabinet so it could be hidden from view, and a laptop leaned against the table leg. Noticing the chair had distressed patches, I concluded there’d once been a cat. Since Clara hadn’t mentioned it, I assumed it had crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

Husband and cat both gone. Poor Clara. No one can replace your spouse, your other half, but the love of an animal helps. I pictured her seated in that rocker, holding her cat each night until it, too, died. No wonder she’d turned her affections to her “girls,” the chickens.

Pulling myself out of that particular pit, I went on to the kitchen, which was more modern than I expected. Twin ovens hinted at a love of cooking, and the large refrigerator held more than two people could eat, much less one little old lady. The plants I’d expected were located there, where they got lots of light. I couldn’t name most of them, but I guessed that Clara, being a scientist, had interests beyond raising geraniums and spider plants. The soil in the pots felt dry, so I watered each of them generously, hoping that would sustain them until a decision was made about Clara’s future.

I took a quick look at the rest of the house, which was cute in the same old-fashioned way my parents’ home was. The most heart-wrenching part was Clara’s bedroom. Half of the space in the walk-in closet was dedicated to what I guessed had been George’s favorite outfit: a plaid flannel shirt, a pair of bib overalls, and some beat-up brown boots. I understood completely. I kept some things of Don’s, too. There’s comfort in seeing them, touching them, smelling them from time to time.

When I finished looking through Clara’s house, I locked the door and put the key back where I’d found it. Nothing I’d seen indicated the owner was failing mentally. The dishes were neatly stacked in the cupboard. The laundry had been kept up. Even the film of dust I found on the furniture was minimal, easily the collection of the week or so she’d been gone. Clara had not neglected her housework or her outside chores. A point in her favor—and Faye’s.

Dusting off my hands, I called to Styx, who was still swimming after the ducks and biting at the water. He didn’t obey, even after several commands, so I finally got a treat from the bag I keep in the glove compartment of the Acadia. That brought him to shore. Once he swallowed his treat, Styx shook himself off (I stayed well back). Then I dried him off with one blanket and opened the back door so he could lie (or
lay
, since Barbara wasn’t around) on the other, which I’d spread on the seat. He stayed there all of twenty seconds before joining me in the front. Styx’s size made squeezing between the seats quite an adventure, but he was determined.

“You smell like a wet dog,” I told him in mock disgust as he settled his big butt on the passenger seat. Completely getting the joke, he grinned at me and leaned against my shoulder, dampening my shirt.

Leaving Clara’s property, I turned to the left, heading for the Clausen place. “If we’re expIoring, we might as well do the whole lake,” I told Styx, who seemed completely agreeable to the idea.

The
for sale
sign was gone. I made a mental note to ask Faye to find out who’d bought the property. The place was as junky as I remembered, but I decided to look around, thinking there might be attractions that weren’t obvious at a glance.

When I opened the car door, I wasn’t quick enough. Seeing the lake ahead, Styx pushed his way out and bounded toward it before I could stop him. Huffing joyously, he plunged into the water again. Sighing deeply, I told myself it wouldn’t take
that
long to dry him off a second time. In the meantime, I turned to satisfying the curiosity that had brought me there.

The house was in bad shape. Peering through the windows, I saw nothing of interest inside, no antique woodwork or salvageable items. A few battered pieces of furniture stood abandoned along the walls. Years of visits from squirrels and bugs had rendered them useless. The piles of junk around the exterior were just that—junk. As I circled the yard I saw more piles in the woods: tin cans and bottles, rusty appliances, and even a tractor with no tires or steering wheel. If someone planned to make a resort out here, he—or she—had a lot of cleanup to do before starting construction.

Finishing my circuit of the yard, I went down to the lake, where Styx was emerging from the water. I stepped back for a second, letting him do the shake thing once and then again. He ran toward me, still dripping, and I spoke firmly. “Styx. Do
not
jump. No!”

He jumped, of course, knocking me backward a few steps, then set his front paws on my shoulders, his way of letting me know how much he loved me for bringing him out there. “I know, Baby. It’s a really nice lake, isn’t it?”

Unable to answer verbally, Styx gave me a wet kiss and waited for me to scratch his ears. When I’d done that, he slid his feet down my front, muddying my shirt and jeans all the way, and wagged at me. Notice I didn’t say he wagged his tail. Styx wags his whole body.

Heading back to my vehicle, I made repairs on my clothing as best I could, using the damp blanket. I really didn’t mind. Dogs need to have fun, just like people do, and I’d brought along a jacket I could put on to cover the worst of it.

As I worked, a noise made me turn, and I saw two cars pass the drive. Headed toward the main road, they had to have come from either the Marsh place or the site where the Warner house had burned. Marsh was more likely, since there was nothing left at the other spot. I craned my neck. Seeing one car on a private lake with no permanent residents was one thing. Two was more surprising. Though I crouched and peered through the trees, all I got was a glimpse. Both vehicles were large. The first was white, the second darker. When they were gone, I chuckled at myself for gawking. Since I didn’t know anyone from either the Warner or the Marsh family, what good would it have done if I had gotten a good look?

Calling to Styx, I rubbed him down with the blanket and remade his bed in the back seat. Very firmly, I told him to lie down and stay. Then I got into the front.

Following the road and my curiosity, I turned left and started around the lake to the Marsh place. I wasn’t even out the Clausens’ driveway when Styx jumped into the front, rubbing his wet body on me again before settling into his rightful place on the passenger seat with a satisfied huff.

There was no sign of anyone at Fred Marsh’s former home, and no car tracks that would indicate someone had been there since the rain. Parking next to a battered Jeep Cherokee that looked like it hadn’t moved in weeks, I got out, this time managing to do so without Styx joining me. As far as I could tell, nothing had changed since the day of Mr. Marsh’s death.

“Well,” I told Styx as I got back in, “I don’t think those cars came from here.”

The Warner place yielded a different result. I hadn’t paid much attention as we passed the driveway earlier, but on the way back I slowed down to look. There were tire tracks, so the vehicles I’d seen had come from there. Had it been utilities workers sent to take care of some detail?

On Saturday?

The Warners lived somewhere near Detroit. Perhaps a relative was watching the place.

Watching what—an empty lot?

I had no answers, but I promised myself that come Monday, Faye and I would find out who’d bought the Clausen property and who might want to own more of Sweet Springs.

As long as I was there, I took a walk around the ruined Warner house, again managing to leave Styx in the car. He cried mournfully, but no way did I need a wet dog in my car who’d also rolled in ashes. Hopping from one grassy spot to the next to protect my shoes, I did a quick trip around the clearing, which smelled of burnt things. Charred and melted remnants of appliances, furniture, carpeting, and even sculpture lay scattered about. The place had been finished, or nearly so. Now it was worth nothing.

As I walked I saw little markers outlining the house, one every ten feet or so. They must have been placed there by investigators, but I didn’t know what they signified.

Leaving the Warner property, I drove back around the lake, stopping again at Clara’s. I’d forgotten to check on the chickens, and Faye was sure to ask about them when I told her I’d been here. In order to leave Styx trapped in the car again, I tossed a doggie treat into the back and got out while he rooted for it. He was just starting to dry, and I didn’t want to go through the taking-a-dip thing again.